Dreams & Books
by Rose Tinted Contact Lenses
Summary: There are memories within the Tower's stone walls - the story of the young apprentices who would eventually escape it, and of one entering it for the first time. Pre-DA:O to post-DA2.
1. A Handshake

_Another idea that bit me and wouldn't go away: we see the mage that got away and became a Warden, but what defined the way they viewed the Tower? What about the mages who still have to grow up there? _

_If you save Connor with lyrium from the Circle, he becomes a Tower apprentice. This follows his, Morgana Amell, Anders and Jowan's childhoods in the Tower._

_Ties in well with _Armour, _the adult Morgana's story, and can be read alongside it; it's all in the same series. _

_{Chapter dedication - karebear, for creating a fascinating Tower canon and for her short piece, "Probation", which piqued my interest in writing apprenticed Connor.}_

* * *

><p><strong>Dreams &amp; Books<strong>

**- I -**

**A Handshake**

He sits on his bed, feet idly kicking at the mattress as he thinks. He was sent off to his room after... after _something. _He doesn't quite know what happened - the memories are still blurred and broken in his head - but people keep acting as if he's been ill, as if he needs rest. He's not _tired, _his mind protests.

He looks up at the clanking of mail, sees the two Wardens standing in the doorway; there's a moment of silence as he stares at them, noticing how far he has to look up to do so.

He remembers what Teagan said: one of them was brought up here, like him, knew his father. The other...

She walks toward him slowly, almost as if she doesn't want to frighten him, and the words fall from his lips in surprise. "Are you... are you the one who saved me?"

She smiles, but her eyes are sad, and he wonders why. "I suppose you could say that." She holds out a hand, and he pauses for a moment, confused - then he remembers what his father used to say about it being polite to shake someone's hand; he didn't know _women _did it, though. His palms are still a little sweaty, and she's still wearing rough leather gloves, but he reaches up and shakes it awkwardly - he's never done this before; usually it's all baby talk about how much he's grown and pats on the head.

He spots the way the other Warden - he thinks the man's name is Alistair, from what he's heard, but he might be wrong - looks at her as if she's doing something very strange, but she doesn't seem to care; she's still smiling. "I'm Morgana. And you're Connor, I assume."

He nods, knowing he looks stupid staring at her. Most of the women in the village wear pretty dresses, are all perfume and giggling; there are some in the guard, he's heard, but he's never really _seen _them. _She_ wears metal armour, has a _sword, _and he thinks there's _blood _in her hair. He tries not to look at that too hard.

He thanks her for taking the confusion out of his head - for so long, he's been muddled, his mind not quite _working, _as though something is trying to stop it, and every time he could see and talk again, it felt like he was being dragged back into darkness. Her smile looks a little shakier now, but she nods, and she leaves with the words, "I think I'll be seeing you soon."

* * *

><p>He certainly <em>hears<em> her again, voice raised, arguing with Mother, saying something about freedom, about prisons and innocence. He doesn't want to listen, so he simply buries his head in his pillow and... doesn't.

* * *

><p>The door creaks open what seems like an awfully long time later, and he rolls over, expecting to see his mother, but instead it's Morgana who enters the room, armoured steps loud in the quiet room, looking at him with concern, her smile gone. He notices that she's carrying a book under one arm, thick and bound with black leather, and wonders why. He sits up, pushes the covers off him and looks at her, waiting for her to speak.<p>

"Connor..." There's a pause, and she sighs. "The things you can do, did Jowan ever name them? Call you anything?"

He frowns, and it takes a moment for him to understand. "He... he said I was a mage, like him."

She nods. "I knew Jowan. He was... _is_ my best friend. We grew up together in the Tower. I... I'm also a mage."

There's a pause as he stares at her sword. A mage with a one of_ those? _

She sees where his eyes are directed, seems to know what he's thinking, and with a movement of her fingers, a light dances around her hand, moving upwards to slowly hover around her head.

He tries to remember what Jowan had called them. "That's a... whisk, isn't it?"

A soft nearly-laugh, and her smile from earlier returns, smaller this time. "A wisp. You're nearly there." She clicks her fingers, the light flickering out, and then she walks across the room, sits on the floor close to his bed. Oh, Mother would _hate_ that - she always says he has to give guests chairs. He looks around hurriedly, but there isn't one, and she keeps sitting there, on the ground.

"Mages usually grow up in the Tower, but I'd think Jowan's already mentioned that."

He nods. "And Uncle Teagan, but Mother and Father wouldn't talk about it..."

"You're going to grow up there, too. It will teach you to understand the things you can do, better than Jowan himself ever could. And what happened, what made you confused - the possession. It won't happen again."

He thinks about it for a moment, then he remembers what Jowan said about the Tower, and he's frightened. "Will I see my family again?"

There's a long silence, Morgana looking at the floor, and there's something wrong with her voice - it comes out a little broken - when she speaks. "No, Connor. I'm sorry. I went into the Tower when I was four, and I... can't remember mine."

Suddenly, the Warden who freed him, who everyone has been telling him to respect and be extra-polite to, looks up, and he realises that she's just as scared as he is; she isn't old and angry, like General Loghain, and she isn't wise and calm like his father - her eyes are wide, frightened, and she isn't the strong woman in the armour he might have been just a little scared of. She's just... Morgana, and she's a mage too, and maybe she'll understand.

"Can I say goodbye?" he asks, hesitantly, and she stands, metal creaking as she does so.

"You're not leaving yet. Not for a few days, at least. Try and get some sleep; it'll do you good." She places the book she's been carrying in his hand, walking to his door; he opens the cover and reads the title, not understanding. _Practical Healing. _

"Why...?"

She turns, and he wonders at the shine to her eyes as she gives him one last smile. "It might help you, in the Tower. And when you read it... remember that you aren't the only one. That some of us got out." Before he can ask her what she means, the door clicks softly shut, and he hears her footsteps fading down the corridor.

He lies back down, running a hand once more over the letters and breathing in the musty smell of old paper, deciding that it must be important if the Warden herself (who's secretly just Morgana, he knows now) has given it to him. He closes it carefully, placing it by his bed, and blows out the candle, sleep soon taking him.


	2. Practical Healing

**Dreams & Books**

**- II -**

**Practical Healing**

**They **give him a day before his studies start - to settle in, they said.

He nervously finger-combs red hair like his mother's, looking around the corridor; as he takes a step, he trips on the oversized blue robes, reaching a hand out to catch himself, palm landing on the stone wall. He nearly drops _Practical Healing_, and hurries to save it.

It all just seems so... _big_ - the ceiling is high above him, everything encased in the same grey stone. One of the templars sees him standing there, open-mouthed, and walks towards him - he almost laughs at the sound of a templar, like one of those one-man bands he saw in Denerim, all _clank_s and crashes; then he sees the eerie, almost eyeless helmet, and swallows, suddenly scared.

"Lost, son?" A deep voice echoes from within the helmet, and he jumps, looking up at the armoured man.

"Um... where do I sleep?" he asks tentatively, his voice suddenly small and scared.

"Hmmm... You'll be looking for the dorms, then." There's a silence. "How old are you?"

"I'm... I'm ten, ser," he tries, remembering his mother's words: be respectful at all times. _Especially when they're bigger than you and in huge armour_, he adds silently.

"Ah." The templar gives him gruff directions, waving gauntlets around and pointing at things, and he nods, trying to follow.

"Thank you, ser," he says finally, and the templar gives a nod, moving away in another symphony of _clank_s; still carrying the heavy book, Connor begins to puff and pant his way up the stone stairs he was pointed to.

The apprentices all look round at him when he arrives, pale, freckled faces betraying their curiosity; some are older than him, many are younger, and he looks round, not knowing what to say or do next.

"Empty bed's over there," one of them mutters, pointing to it, and he thanks the boy, making his way clumsily to sit on the mattress. He watches them warily, but none of them move, many talking or relaxing with books.

He sighs, placing the small bag of belongings onto the bed, then picks up the book he was given once again, the leather warm under his hands. Another glance round, and then he cautiously opens it, staring at the contents and frowning; it's all gibberish, all speaking about _rejuvenation _and_ mana stasis... _

He's ready to close it when he notices the small number written in messy, loopy handwriting in the corner of the page: a date, he thinks_. _He frowns, confused, then recognises the numbers stamped into his brain since childhood: Satinalia.

* * *

><p><em>A past Satinalia <em>

**Morgana** looked around anxiously as the other apprentices seemed to realise they had someone new in their dormitory; she had arrived the night before, when the... templars (that was it, templars) had taken her.

She saw their gaze flicker to her face, then quickly away. She looked at the sleeves of her new robes - she couldn't see them, but she still knew the burns were _there._

Swallowing, frightened, and turning away from them - her bed faced the wall - she pulled up her sleeve, eyes watering at the brush of the material on sore skin, her eyes turning to the burns on her arms - her awakening to her magic had not been an easy one, and the red, shiny skin proved it.

It had all gone so _wrong_, she hadn't known she could, and her mother _cried_... She was only four, and it wasn't her fault, and it all seemed so _unfair. _She still hated the memory. Bottom lip wobbling, tears finally escaping, she swallowed, knowing that the first, horrible, shuddering sob would soon follow.

She was surprised when the boy with the orange - for, no matter how much she told herself that his name was Jowan, he was still "the boy with the orange" in her head - came back from his bed and sat next to her once again; he followed her gaze with his own, giving her a small, sympathetic half-smile. "Did you... make those?" At her nod, he looked over his shoulder, her instinctively turning as well.

"See him?" he asked, gesturing to an older apprentice sat on his bed, a small knife next to him, orange neatly split into slices. The boy was taking precisely one at a time, popping them distractedly into his mouth, his head in a book that appeared to be about trees, legs absently kicking.

Jowan laughed. "Flora." Then he stopped, looking slightly remorseful. "Well, actually... Florian. Need to remember that. But... he came in with them all down here." He looked at her sadly, trailing a finger down his cheek and neck. "We're used to it." He stared nervously at the templar standing in the doorway, then back at the boy's knife. "They... They don't like us using knives, won't let us without them. I don't understand, though... He's eight, he's big enough to use scissors on his own, and they won't let us near those either."

She frowned, chewing her lip, and caught Jowan staring at her arms. When he saw her expression, he looked sheepish. "Sorry." He cautiously poked one of the burns, saw her wince with a short hiss and the tears begin to fill her eyes, and asked cautiously, "Do they really hurt?" She nodded, and he frowned. "Why don't you get them healed?"

"Healed?" She'd heard the word before, but couldn't remember where.

"Come on," he said standing up, and holding out a hand, "I can show you."

She looked up (when you were four, even five-year-olds really _were _extraordinarily tall) and then took it, noticing that Jowan was trying to be careful of her burns.

She also noticed that he made sure not to look at any of the steel men (templars, she reminded herself) that they passed, though she openly stared. They were just so... _big._

The woman that greeted them when they came to a small office, hustling them in, was red-robed and stern, checking the marks and muttering something that sounded like, "Foolish girl."

Morgana swiftly took away her hand at being chastised, tears threatening, quite ready to walk out of the office and put up with the pain, but the woman grabbed her hand, face stern under grey hair. "No. You must have these treated, or they will scar." She sighed. "Oh, child, what have you done to yourself?"

Morgana's voice was small, frightened, as she asked, "What's scar?"

The woman sat down in a chair, eyeing her, her face turning softer. "I will tell you when you're older." She frowned down at the skinny arm before her, still tanned for now, running a hand gently along it. Morgana winced in pain at the contact, but the marks appeared to fade until they were gone; she looked, wide-eyed, at the skin, then at the woman. "It will be tender for a while," the woman added.

Jowan spoke up from behind her. "Thank you, Enchanter."

The woman nodded briskly, standing. "Now, I'm sure you must return to your dormitories. Be off with you."

Morgana stood, eager to be away. She almost didn't see the woman stop Jowan in the doorway with a soft, "Look after her."

The boy nodded obediently, standing a little straighter. "Yes, Wynne." Then he joined Morgana in the corridor, pointing to a doorway and saying cheerfully, "I think your first lesson's here, after breakfast."

"With you?" she asked hopefully, peering up at him.

He shook his head. "Oh, I'm older," he replied, pride evident in his voice, pointing up a flight of stairs. "I'm up there."

There was a moment of silence before she let out a very small, "Oh," worried that she might cry again.


	3. Settling In

_Apologies for the chapter delay - being a "proper" multi-chapter, I knew this wouldn't be as frequently-updated as _Armour_, but I took a look at my update times and whistled in horrified disbelief. _

_POV switches await all ye who enter here - I've written them as clearly and unobtrusively as I can - but this is quite a Connor-centric chapter._

* * *

><p><strong>Dreams &amp; Books<strong>

**-III-**

**Settling In**

**Connor** closes the book, still wondering at the significance of the date, and looks up; a few of the apprentices are still unabashedly staring at him, obviously wondering who he is. He tenses, waiting for someone to speak, and then a pale, black-haired, freckled girl smiles at him. He smiles back.

"I'm Lea," she says from her bed, and then stands, walking to him and sitting next to him. She looks down at _Practical Healing_, frowning. "What's that? Looks like one of our textbooks..."

He nods. "I... I think it is. Do you understand this?" He opens it, handing her the book of gibberish.

"'S for the older years. I'd ask Matt - though he's better with primal than creation. Why'd you have a book you're too young for, anyhow?"

He shrugs. "Morgana gave it to me."

"Who?"

He sighs, not feeling like sharing the whole story yet, and just says, "Another mage."

Lea nods sagely, flicking through a couple of more pages, before halting. "Ooh! I know this, though. Library number." He peers over her shoulder, and she explains, "Look. Shelf, author letter, reference section."

_223.A.76, _he reads, frowning. "I see," he tries, not really seeing at all, but feeling the need to be polite. After all, he _is _an Arl's son.

* * *

><p>Connor's night is almost entirely sleepless, partly because the bed is so unfamiliar (he's sure<em> his<em> mattress was never this _hard_) and partly because he can hear the other apprentices' whispers.

"Never said who 'e was..."

"'Asn't spoken a word."

"He appears to be from Redcliffe. Certainly has a fishmarket accent."

"Aren't you going to actually _speak _to him?"

He turns over, not wanting to hear the rest, and screws his eyes shut. When he eventually sleeps, he dreams of his family, of his father backing away from him and calling him a monster, of _her _crawling through his head, of all he has ever wanted.

He wakes screaming, fists in tangled bedsheets, not knowing where he is, a heavy weight on his head. As he opens blurry eyes, he realises that it's a hand on his head, and that the hand is connected to a worried mage leaning over his bed. Wait - no, an _apprentice, _judging from the blue robes.

"You alright, kid?" the apprentice asks, dark hair falling into his face. He seems to be much older than the others, tall as a man and speaking like one. He points to the other apprentices, hovering wide-eyed behind him. "They called me 'ere."

"I think I am," Connor replies, gingerly unclenching his fists and frowning up at the apprentice, still wondering who he is.

"Mattheu." The apprentice answers his silent question, holding out a hand - is that a _mage _thing, shaking hands with ten-year-olds? - and grinning widely. "Matt to all who know me."

The mage Lea was talking about?

He looks round; candles are lit, shadows flickering on the floor, in here and in the corridor. He must have woken _everyone. _"I wasn't that loud, was I?" he asks quietly, looking at his knees.

Matt shakes his head. "'Ave to compliment you on your lungs, but nope. It's time for lessons."

_Lessons? _Connor is used to being woken by daylight, and searches for it, until he realises with shock that there are no windows here. Not a one. His throat goes tight, and he has to swallow it down, trying to steady his breathing.

The mage slaps him on the back. "Be seein' you." He looks at something written on the back of his hand and mutters, "Primal, I think."

Lea waves to the apprentice, and he waves back, walking out of the dormitory. She walks to Connor's bed, cocking her head and frowning at him. "Must 'ave been bad when they took you." She spots him looking over her shoulder at where the retreating apprentice had been. "Matt's my brother."

He nods, trying to climb out of bed, and nearly falls over, looking for his daytime breeches and shirt, but is instead greeted with the sight of that strange blue robe. He looks round in confusion, but the others seem to be trooping out of the room. "C'mon," Lea says, gesturing to him, and he does, falling into the line and darting glances at the stone walls, the ceiling, the templars...

They turn down a corridor, eventually coming to two doors; when he makes to follow Lea through one of them, she stops him, laughing. "You're a _boy. _Door on the right."

He nervously follows the other apprentices; clothes are piled in a small side room, and then he steps into a huge, high-ceilinged room filled with empty tin baths. He moves to one of them and stands, hands uselessly by his side, frowning at it and feeling... stupid. There is a soap and towel, but no water.

He jumps and looks round at a hand on his shoulder. A red-haired boy rolls his eyes and then says in a distinctly Denerim accent, "First day?"

He nods, and the boy waves his arms around, Connor finding himself staring. Ice appears in the tub, and then the boy casts something else. A fire flickers merrily into life below it, the ice melting unnaturally quickly away. He's _sure _ice isn't meant to work like _that, _or make so much water_._

"Magical fire," the boy explains briskly at his expression, dipping a hand into the water. "Try that." The boy snaps his fingers, extinguishing the fire, and walks away without a second glance, returning to his own tub.

Connor trails a few fingers in the water, finding it pleasantly hot, looks round self-consciously, and sighs, climbing in.

* * *

><p>After a breakfast in which he'd had to compete with several other apprentices trying to snatch the last couple of bread rolls, he's sent to his first lesson, trailing behind Lea and frowning. "Primal," she says, and he just looks at her blankly. "The elements. Fire, earth, water, air, all that."<p>

A tiny thrill courses through him at the thought of that kind of control - why, mages could take over the world with that kind of power! His heart sinks as he realises that perhaps that's _why _he's here. It feels more like a prison than a school - no _windows. _He remembers the look of sadness on Morgana's face when she'd told him, and things begin to slot into place in his head. She didn't like it here, did she?

He's distracted from that thought by Lea giving him a gentle shove towards a door. "You're still a beginner," she explains, almost apologetically. "You'll work your way up soon, yer just came late." She smiles, walking up some stairs and out of sight, and he takes a deep breath, striding into his classroom.

His mother's words echo in his head. He must be confidently and friendly when meeting new people. Confident and friendly.

He stops abruptly as he sees the average age of the apprentices - between four and six. He's studying with _babies? _

Matt, sitting on a chair in the corner, spots his horror and gives him exactly the same slightly sheepish grin as his sister.

* * *

><p><strong>Jowan<strong> had left Morgana at the door to her first lesson with one last regretful look, and she'd nodded as stoically as a four-year-old could, trying to hold her head up high as she entered the room and nearly tripping over a dropped staff. One of the apprentices hastily picked it up, his ears turning red as the Enchanter began to shout at him about being more careful; she recognised the boy as Flora - _Florian, _she corrected herself.

She stood a little straighter, looking at the blustering mage with the bravery of one too young to be afraid yet. "Please, I wasn't looking, Ser."

The Enchanter stared at her for a moment, and then snorted in contempt. "You're the new one, then. I am _Enchanter, _child, never _Ser. _We are not _templars, _and you would do well to remember that."

She looked down at her feet for a moment, then met his eye. "I wasn't looking, Enchanter."

"It does not matter," the mage snarled. "How he is disciplined is none of your business. With the others. Now." He pointed to the apprentices clustered in front of him, and she nodded once before moving to stand with them.

Flor - _ian _gave her a shy smile of thanks, and she returned it, turning back to the mage before she could be caught.

* * *

><p><em>Expect to see some familiar faces very, very soon... *cough* Next chapter. *cough*<em>


	4. Iyce Rynk

_I've kept promising updates on this and not following through, and I'm more than a little ashamed of it. I hope I've made up for it somewhat with this chapter._

* * *

><p><strong>Dreams &amp; Books<strong>

**- IV -**

**Iyce Rynk**

**Connor **takes weeks to become comfortable in classes. Aside from Mattheu, he's the tallest in the room where he takes his lessons.

Also, he wishes that someone had told him that elemental magic is _terrifying._

Half of him wants to cower behind one of the desks as he watches the ice spells flying around the room. One of the younger apprentices, Lorinne, only six, catches his hand with one, and he desperately shakes his wrist, staring at his hand in terror - it appears to have grown an ice cube round it, and the cold _burns._

Enchanter Merris only makes matters worse by shouting at the little elven girl, the harsh words bouncing off the walls. She bursts into tears, leaving Connor feeling even _worse _as he tries to comfort her, patting her on the shoulder with his ice-free hand.

After a girl who says she's Lorrine's best friend leads her out of the classroom, Matt takes him aside and looks at his frozen hand, wincing a little before applying a gentle fire spell. Connor yelps at the sudden heat, but the ice dissolves, and it only takes a few minutes before he can flex his fingers again. He still doesn't dare try an ice spell himself, however, and he doesn't miss the glare Merris sends him.

He leaves the classroom with the others, hanging his head at being so useless, so frightened of his own magic; when he arrives at his dormitory, he spots _Practical Healing _lying by his bed, and feels angry at Morgana for giving him such a useless book. He wonders if one of the older apprentices would have more use for it, and decides to skim through it one more time before he gives it away.

He stops at two words, little stars - or, wait, are they _snowflakes? _- drawn round them: _Iyce Rynk._ Frowning, he begins to read the scribbled little notes under them, then looks up. _"Lea!"_

* * *

><p><strong>Morgana <strong>was still not comfortable in classes.

She hadn't been started with a staff yet, and working without one to channel your mana was harder, Jowan knew, but that wasn't the problem.

She was _scared._

The burns on her arms are healed, but - Florean told him - the first time they started with fire magic, she kept backing away, shaking her head; unfortunately, they had Enchanter Merris, who everyone had a secret suspicion was immortal and possibly, even, possessed by a rage demon. Whatever he was, everyone hated him, and they had even more reason to when he bent down and shouted in the small, wide-eyed girl's face that she had no _choice _in the matter and that he would not allow her to grow up useless. Apparently, he was even _spitting._

Morgana had taken a few steps backwards, listening to the shouting in silence, then said quietly, "Sorry, sir," and run out of the room.

He hadn't seen her all day, and it worried him.

* * *

><p>That afternoon, ignoring the sounds of the others eating in the hall downstairs, Florean - not yet Finn - entered the abandoned dormitory, holding a book with one hand and hastily attempting to comb his hair with the other. He began to make his way to his bed, ready to slip the (stolen from the library) book into his bedside draw, but froze at a sound he hadn't heard in this dormitory for a long time.<p>

Small, muffled snuffles and gasps pierced the silence, and he looked to the bed in the corner, spotting a small, curled-up figure with her face in a pillow, trying to be quiet.

The girl from Elemental. The one Merris hated. What was her name? It was on the tip of his tongue, he just couldn't _quite... _Malena? She had helped him, and after her stumbling in class, well... it was only fair to return the favour.

He placed the brush and book on his bed, then tentatively walked to her; he ended up standing over her bed in an awkward silence, not quite knowing what to say. He wasn't used to girls, and _crying _girls... well, they were just impossible.

He understood her fright well, of course. He knew how she'd entered the Tower, most of the dormitory did already - a burner, apparently, like him. Better than a freezer or a killer. He remembered the pain along his neck and shoulders, his parents' frightened eyes, and grimaced.

He cleared his throat. "Look, Marina - "

A pause, and, still gasping for breath, she mumbled something into her pillow. _Oh. Her name. _He paused, then tried again with what he thought he'd heard. "Look, Magrat - "

The first word she said properly to him was, "No."

"Meghren?"

She looked up at him. She seemed to have stopped crying now, though she still couldn't quite breathe properly, and looked up at him; shaking her head, she gingerly sat up.

"Mogwen?"

Another shake of her head, then she told him.

He took a deep breath, then said, "Morgana..." A cautious pause.

She nodded this time and smiled a little shakily at him.

"They won't let the magical fire hurt. They have shields, wards..." He sat down on the bed next to her and produced a small notebook from a specially sown pocket in his robes, flicking through it until he found the right page. "If you see here, the dimensional force produced by your mana - " He waved a finger at one of the lines, and she frowned at it, clearly uncomprehending.

He sighed. "See, if you learn the intermolecular movements - "

* * *

><p>Jowan greeted Morgana as she came down to dinner, still with a frown line between her brows, and asked her what was wrong.<p>

"Do you understand...?" she began, then tried to repeat some of Florean's theories.

Jowan sat there, confused and glazed-eyed, for five minutes before he said that maybe she should eat and... take her mind off things. When she opened her mouth, he hastily passed her a buttered bread roll and gave her a slightly pleading look. She shut it again, and began to wolf down the food she'd been missing.

* * *

><p>Merris was surprised when the troublesome girl made her first fumbling attempts at fire - more smoke, really - and kept looking to the butterfingered boy at the back who couldn't hold a staff (the one with the girl's name, that was it), as if for reassurance. She began to produce flames shortly afterwards, and he thought he saw fear behind her eyes, but they... weren't bad.<p>

He hated to admit it, but she had promise.

Her strength, however, was ice, and she seemed to enjoy using it. She was ahead of the others, and she smiled as the icicles appeared.

He had found himself smiling approvingly when she had been the first to freeze the bath full of water they were practising on, and she had looked up in surprise.

He had decided that a smile would breed complacency, however, and moved swiftly onwards.

* * *

><p>Elemental still scared her in many ways, and it was Creation classes that seemed to enthral her. She still found it impossible to forget Enchanter Wynne's fingers ghosting over her hand, the wound fading...<p>

She remembered her parents' frightened faces, the burns on her arms, and thought in wonder about what she had seen. If magic could take away pain, ease suffering...

She had gone to see the Enchanter, told her that she wanted to learn more about healing. Wynne had handed her a heavy, leather bound book, and told her to come back to her quarters after lessons.

That was how the healing lessons had begun.

* * *

><p>Morgana found a better use for the ice spell, of course, in the end, as Feastday came.<p>

Jowan looked at her in horror, and said, "The templars will _kill _us. They really will."

She shook her head. "They won't know we did it."

She had showed him the hastily scribbled ideas in Wynne's book - she had started to take healing notes in it, with Wynne's reluctant permission, and it had all spiralled a little out of control after that. Now the book was used for _everything._

It took months of practice, and they'd kept writing long after lights-out in the dormitory. After a while, Neria and Samuel had asked what they were working on, complaining about the scratching and the wisps in the middle of the night, and they had grudgingly showed them.

Samuel's face lit up, and he pointed at the notes. "If you use cone of cold there..." Samuel was older, had been studying Elemental longer, and she trusted his advice. Together, the four of them began to scheme, and Morgana made two more friends in her dormitory.

* * *

><p>Chaos in the halls, Wynne thought, having to stab her staff into the layer of ice covering the floor to make any progress along the corridor. She had already lost her footing several times on the wintery apprentices' floor, and she was beginning to lose her patience.<p>

Feastday. The day of pranks. Once, she would perhaps have joined in a stunt like this, but that was a long time ago, before... She sighed, remembering the feel of the babe in her arms, years ago now, then shook the thoughts out of her head.

Irving. Yes, she would see if they could come up with a solution to this together.

There was a loud _clatter _as one of the templars lost his footing, followed by giggles from the apprentices, who were...

_Wait._

They appeared to have some sort of strange contraption attached to their shoes, and were actually _finding their way _through this. They appeared to be made out of wood and - repulsion spells?

Surely _Florean _wasn't involved in this? She wouldn't think he had it in him.

She started to make to follow them, before there was a loud, excited squeal from the staircase to her left, now covered with a thick, sheer layer of ice. Young Surana came sliding down what were once used to be steps and barrelled into her, knocking her off her feet.

Once she managed to sit up, she glared at the apprentice and finally managed to voice her question. "What in the _Maker's name _is going _on?_"

Neria looked at her in terror for a moment, then let out a small, nervous giggle. "Ask Morgana."

* * *

><p><strong>Connor <strong>runs a finger down the notes, open-mouthed. The Warden everyone was talking about, asking him to be polite to, did things like _this?_

He smiles, and can't help thinking that it really sounds... quite fun.

He exchanges a smile with Lea.

His mother would never approve. He isn't _supposed _to break rules, he's a noble's son.

He pauses, the thought upsetting and freeing at the same time. Is he _really, _in here?


	5. Fallout

_Gone back and made a few corrections (my mind's being dumb about canon again)._

* * *

><p><strong>Dreams &amp; Books<strong>

**V**

**Fallout**

**Jowan **was dragged into the office the next day along with Morgana, once the ice had been cleaned up. Greagoir shouted at them about "abuse of their power" and "danger to the other students", spittle flying, and Morgana winced.

She opened her mouth, was about to protest that it had just been a childish game, when Jowan gently pushed her backwards with an arm. She looked at him, wide-eyed, but he ignored her and said quietly, "It was me. I used the ice spells." A pause. "Look how young she is. As if she'd be able to do those things."

Irving's eyes dropped to the floor, and he minutely shook his head. Greagoir looked at them both suspiciously with a small, sceptical "Hmm," and then pointed at Jowan. "Amell. Out. _You._" He glared at the small dark-haired boy. "_Here."_

Jowan stepped forward, hands shaking, and darted a quick glance to Morgana, nodding to the door.

A year seemed like a large age difference, then. She stepped reluctantly outside, and the heavy wooden door was slammed. She paused a moment, then sat on the floor, the stone cold against her legs.

There was a _clank_, and she looked up to see a templar glaring down at her. "You should really be in your dormitory, you know," came from the helmet in muffled tones. A man, she thought.

She shook her head. "Please... I... I'm waiting for him."

A sigh, but the templar didn't move, just standing there and muttering, "They'll transfer me for neglect of duty, you know."

She heard Greagoir's raised voice through the door. Something being knocked over. She gazed up at him. "Will they...?" She made the motion with her hand that stood for lashings amongst the apprentices.

The templar shook his head, the helm sliding with a scrape of metal, then quietly cursed, eventually removing it. A weary-looking, dark-haired man, starting to grow an accidental beard, was revealed. He shook his head again, helm placed at his feet, and said, "He's too young. It's rare with apprentices, anyway. I don't know whether what they do is worse, anyway..." He looked at the door, and she saw something far away in his eyes.

She heard Irving mutter, "I am sorry, Jowan."

Greagoir's voice, saying, "If you cannot _use _your power correctly, you cannot have it." A cry from Jowan, and a flash of light under the door.

Jowan's name wrenched itself from her throat, and she moved to claw at the door, but was restrained by a gauntleted hand; she looked up at the templar, who shook his head again. "There's nothing you can do."

"There's _always _something!" she exclaimed, with all the earnestness of the very young. She fought, may even have hissed, struggling for the door.

"You'll only make it worse for yourself," the man warned her. "They smote him. You can't help him. Don't try."

That was how she learned of smites, and when Jowan became her best friend.

After seeing him nearly carried into their dormitory by templars, she sat by his bedside with tears running down her face, telling him that it was _all her fault..._

He just smiled, and said, "It was fun while it lasted, though." He held her hand, and told her everything would be all right, that his magic would return soon.

He'd received applause and pats on the back from the others in the dormitory. Samuel and Neria had sneaked him rolls and cakes from the hall. Even Florian had said that he wished he could be as brave.

Morgana watched, heart sinking and mind guilty. She knew that if she went to the templars, told them what she'd done, that it would make his own punishment pointless; there really _was_ nothing she could do.

She didn't try anything like the ice rink spell again. The anger began to grow as well as the fear, dark and uncoiling inside her.

The templars had no right to do this to them. Hurt them like this.

* * *

><p><strong>Connor <strong>gazes at the words on the page, mouth tight.

_Jowan. Smite. _Drawn wonkily next to them is the symbol of Andraste's sword. He stops, finger going back to the name.

_Jowan. _His tutor, the blood mage. Morgana's best friend.

Underneath the words are more notes, in a hand he now recognises well - careful, looped but small. Mixture for head and joint pain. Ointment for fighting of infections.

He shakes his head sadly, closes the book, and heads to Creation class. Lea nods, gives him a smile, and carries on her work with the stink bomb.

He recites his own instructions in his head. _One part deathroot, one part skunkweed..._

He's beginning to have second thoughts.

* * *

><p><strong>It <strong>was a year later, when she was sat in the library with Florian, brow furrowed as she tried to wade through his latest set of notes (he was only _nine, _how could he understand these things when she couldn't?) that he asked quietly, "Morgana?"

She looked up from her book. "Yeah?"

"What do you think of... Finn?"

* * *

><p><strong>It's<strong> a year later when he begins to understand the words in _Practical Healing_, to be able to put into practice Morgana's scribbled notes. Creation is his second-best school after Elemental, and he's nearly worked his way up to Lea's class. He's studying with seven-and-eight-year-olds now, but Mattheu's still with him.

"Why?" he asks the older apprentice one day, frowning.

Matt looks down at him in surprise. "You don't know?" He shakes his head, and Matt explains, "Simply put, I'm your tutor. Everyone has one. Lea's is Cobble." He points to a blond mage whose head is in a book. "His father was a shoemaker, y'see."

Connor nods, still not really understanding, idly flicking through _Practical Healing. _Another name catches his eye.

_Niall._

Mattheu cranes his neck to look, then raises his eyebrows. "Nice bloke, Niall. Killed in the Fade when the Circle..." He trails off, looks away. "Maker, that was awful."

Morgana seemed to like Niall, too. A small arrow with the words _mentor_ is connected to the name, and underneath are the words, _Nice. Good with Creation. Isolationist._

He frowns at the last word, not understanding.

"Was... was Niall her mentor, then?" he asks hesitantly.

Mattheu frowns. "'Her'? Hang on..." He places a hand on the book, moves it to his own lap, then looks into Connor's eyes, concerned. "Where did you get this from?"

"She gave it to me," Connor replies, confused at the look on Matt's face.

"Look," says Matt briskly, "Niall was mentoring Amell. Bit older than me, big blue eyes, crap with a staff - "

Connor nods. Sounds like her.

"Amell isn't here anymore. You know why?"

Connor nods again. He does.

"She became a Grey Warden. _The _Grey Warden. She hasn't been here in months, certainly hasn't been here to give you her diary. So, I'll ask you again..." There's steel in his voice now, and it scares Connor. "Where _exactly_ did you get this?"


End file.
